OFF THE PATH, AN ADVENTURE

SUSAN CAMPBELL Susan Campbell can be reached at or atTHE HARTFORD COURANT

What the winter does to the Connecticut woods is criminal and beautiful. I had avoided one particular stretch of trail since early fall because I figured the fallen branches would make it all but impassable. Then, too, once leaves fall, the faint trace of this trail is all but invisible. Keep the bubbling Dickinson Creek to your right, and you're fine, but there are parts of the walk where brambles push you inland, and if you wander too much, you end up smack in the middle of a forest where every tree and rock looks the same. I've done it.

If there's one thing I hate about New England winters, it's the safe routine it forces on you. Bad roads and bad weather keep you indoors or next to everyone else on paths cleared by omnipresent snowplows. You dare not veer too far off the path, lest you find yourself smack in the middle of a snowdrift. Or something.

That was my motivation for walking the trace-trail. I am tired of the routine of winter. I only just this past weekend crawled out to remove the Christmas lights. My excuse had been snow on the porch roof. I can't possibly risk my neck to be current, but I could, as it turns out, balance on the porch railing, crook one hand along a notch in the porch roof and inch my way along to unsnap the lights. I have neighbors who not only have their lights up but also occasionally turn them on. Maybe that is their way of escaping drudgery, but I can tell you, it's jarring so close to March to see Santa smiling at you from someone's porch. Move on, already.

The dog and I found the trail, and nearly immediately I felt the sting and slap of a branch across my cold cheek. As I held my glove to that cheek, another branch reached down and slapped the other one. Not far from where we started on the trail, a tree had broken off in the middle and fallen upside down, lodged in the creek bed. The tree appeared to be growing from the creek. Instead of tapering off into the sky, the tree just got thicker. Once it falls -- as it most likely will, come the spring rush of water -- it will severely interrupt the flow of the creek.

We came to a little waterfall, which was clogged with smooth clumps of brown ice, bubbling water caught in the act. The water had slowed enough to freeze, partially. The ice snapped and popped and sounded like invisible people were walking across it. The dog went out to investigate.

Had we not had a thaw the day before, I imagine the ice would have held him, but he traveled too far, and before I could call him back, his back legs disappeared beneath the ice without so much of a snap. He didn't thrash or fight. He just propped there, looking like a hungry child at a table, paws and neck out, eyes on me.

I have driven madly through tears to the animal hospital when this dog was hit by a snowplow. I have walked with him hundreds of miles through these woods. He listens without judgment. Of all the dogs I've had, this is my favorite.

I read in a survivor's manual once that in ice rescues, the rescuer should spread her weight out. If the ice wouldn't hold the weight of my dog, it most certainly wouldn't hold an upright me. I dropped to my belly and started inching the 12 feet across the bumpy, cracking ice, talking to him the whole time. I used a nice tone, but I cussed him out for putting us in this pickle.

The ice groaned beneath me, and for a brief, panicked moment, it felt as if the ice was buckling. But I reached the dog, who hadn't so much as whimpered while he waited for me.

My dog weighs 90 pounds. Lodged in the ice as he was, the back half of him was wet and much heavier. I grabbed hold with both hands, propped my elbows on the ice, and pulled. The collar slid over his head, the ice popped, and I froze a moment. When the ice held, I fit the collar back over his head and pulled again. The ice beneath me cracked like a gunshot, I yelled "No!" and the dog heard "Go!" The moment his back paws hit the ice, he pushed with all his might. When he was out of the water, he shook himself and rained ice needles into my face while the ice around us groaned and sagged.

He scooted to the shore as I crab-walked back beside him. On shore, I sat and caught my breath and listened to the ice pop. The dog sat quietly beside me, sharing the post-adventure glow.

By the time we got home, we were both limping on frozen feet. The dog curled up on the warm tile floor in the sun room, and I took two hot showers. As I type this, it's sleeting outside. We'll both live. The dog shows no signs of ill health. I imagine he's already forgotten the incident. Not me. I am exhilarated. It was precisely the kind of adventure that will get me through these last gasping weeks of winter. It reminded me: All the fun happens off-trail.